


beyond a moment of observation

by sophiegaladheon



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Character Death, Cold War, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Alternating, Zine:Namida, loosely inspired by John Le Carré and the Karla trilogy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 10:17:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19439416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiegaladheon/pseuds/sophiegaladheon
Summary: The grave had no headstone, only a small metal plaque with a string of numbers etched onto it staked into the freshly turned earth.  A man stood, looking down at the cheerfully winking shine of new brass under the hot sun, as though the anonymous string of digits would transform and reveal to him one final truth about the man they presumed to identify.The life of a spy is a lonely one.  And rarely one with a happy ending.





	beyond a moment of observation

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Namida: Yuri on Ice Angst Zine

The grave had no headstone, only a small metal plaque with a string of numbers etched onto it staked into the freshly turned earth. A man stood, looking down at the cheerfully winking shine of new brass under the hot sun, as though the anonymous string of digits would transform and reveal to him one final truth about the man they presumed to identify.

“In death, as in life,” he murmured, the words lost in the soft summer breeze that rustled the tall grass at the edge of the potter's field. “You never were one to give up any your secrets. Always had to make me work for them. More of a surprise that way.” He chuckled, a hollow, bitter laugh. “At least you got a nice view.”

It was a nice view, the row of graves—hardly marked, some not at all, designated for the poor, the indignant, the unidentified—backing up against a strip of wildflowers, sloping down into a canal, a minor tributary of one of the greater engineering feats of the Industrial Revolution, now two centuries old and fallen into disuse. Mallards paddled placidly through the water, their green heads shining proudly in the late-morning sun, and swallows swooped and chartered cheerfully from the string of overhead power lines that brought a jolt of harsh, ugly reality to the bucolic nature scene.

The man turned his attention once more to the grave. He did not speak again, for a long while, he could not think of what to say. There was too much left unspoken between them to start the conversation now, when there could be no answers to the questions, no reassurances to the anxieties and doubts— _there never could be_ , he reminds himself, _because you are you and he was him and neither of you could ever speak clearly or truthfully by your very natures._

But he was never very good with the truth, and he has worked too long in his business to know it to be anything but a malleable, ever-changing, and subjective thing. And all of the years—despite all of the lies, all of the half-truths and double dealings, the compromises and betrayals and negotiations which he had been dealt from behind that deceptive, charming smile and returned in equal measure—he cannot find it in himself to hate.

Or, perhaps more accurately, he cannot force himself to stop loving.

And yet.

And yet, here he is, standing before a hardly marked grave, with no name to give but one that would be equally false if not more so than the string of council-assigned digits linking back to a manufactured police report and an autopsy file. With nothing to show for the last thirty-odd years of his life but the suspicion of his colleagues, a grudging reinstatement from his superiors, and the ever-increasing paranoia of someone who has spent far too long looking over their shoulder. 

The memories, he isn’t sure how to account for those. He is standing at the grave, though, paying his respects—if you could call it that—at the final resting place of the man whose smile and laugh, and lies and eyes, and staunch loyalties and antagonistic provocations had driven and distracted him for the last three decades of his professional and personal life. The man behind those few fleeting touches and kisses had haunted him every day for over thirty years and would continue to haunt him until the day he died. He wasn’t sure what that said—about him, about _him,_ about their relationship, about their business, or the world in general—but he would bet that none of it was good.

The sun was hot and sweat prickled on his brow. He’d dressed far too warmly for the weather, the raincoat and heavy wool sweater soon growing itchy and constricting in the heat. The man raised a hand to scratch the back of his neck, adjusting his collar to unstick his shirt from his back. He used the motion to disguise a quick survey of the cemetery—he was still alone, as he had been his entire visit. The nearest person was a groundskeeper running a lawnmower over the graves of those who died with enough to pay for proper burials, barely a speck in the distance and more identifiable by the sound of his machine than by any defining human characteristics. 

Even despite the near-total isolation, the man spoke his final words at barely above a whisper, before leaving the cemetery at a brisk pace, without so much as a glance back at the grave.

“Goodbye, Vitya. Sleep well.”

* * *

It was dangerous, he knew, to get too close. Personal attachments were a weakness, one he himself never hesitated to exploit, one he knew his enemies foreign and domestic would not hesitate before using to destroy him. The only thing to do, the only thing he could ever do, was to draw himself back, keep himself apart, and do his job, better than anyone else who might think to replace him. He knew, far too well, the consequences of failure.

And yet. Even as he held himself aloof, played the dangerous chess matches of agency politics, sent agents on their missions and brought back valuable intelligence snuck out right from under his opposite number’s nose to the grim approval of his superiors, even as the dull grey fog of tedium and despair settled down over his mind, dulling his thoughts and reactions, even then. There was Yuuri.

It had taken so much digging, the positioning of agents in places both sides swore they could never be infiltrated, but he had done it. And he had found out his mystery man’s real name. Katsuki Yuuri. The syllables were like sunlight glancing off a pond in his mental landscape. The delight, the challenge that his opponent posed was absolutely marvelous, more fun than he’d had in ages.

But it was more than that. _Worse_ than that. In that sweltering interrogation room, for only a few hours years past, Viktor had let himself be swept away by kind brown eyes and an awkward laugh.

He hadn’t let it get to him, of course, hadn’t defected, hadn’t taken any deals. He had let himself be traded home and faced his punishment like the dutiful son of his country he was.

But the chink in his armor remained, opened that day and incrementally widened over the years, careful investigation and professional antagonism like a game of secret, long-distance chess widening the intrusion into his emotional defenses like a nail wiggled in a plaster wall, eventually big enough to see through. Or perhaps the comparison would be better like that to a splinter, stuck beneath the skin and antagonized until the area is infected and inflamed.

Infected, that was a good way to think about it. The creeping infection of emotional attachment (for a man he’d only met once, and hardly under appropriate circumstances) was slowly seeping out of the containment he thought he’d sealed it in years ago. After everything he’d had to deal with his cousin (now safe, hopefully safe, angry and resentful but far from the clutches of anyone who might use him against Viktor) he’d hoped to never again face such an emotionally compromising position. 

He knew his own stupidity, cursed himself for it. Feeling for an enemy agent compromised him to his superiors, to his colleagues, and to his opponents. Display too much interest in any one of his targets and the competitive, backstabbing machinations of his own agency would turn against him. To reveal too much to the other side would obviously be even worse.

The position was untenable, and yet he’d played the balancing act for so long he didn’t know how to stop. Play the game, win the match, hide your feelings deep inside lest or until you go mad. The same as everyone else. The status quo maintained, at least until something came along and sent everything crashing to the ground.

A knock at the door revealed a stone-faced courier bearing an envelope marked ‘Top Secret’. Viktor raised an eyebrow at the contents. His superiors wanted him back in the field. The location drew his attention, even as he tried to read the rest of the assignment. _Yuuri._ He gripped the paper tightly, creasing it in his hands. This would be interesting.

* * *

Yuuri knew his single-minded focus was beginning to give his superiors worry. His colleagues, too. 

“It isn’t normal to have a framed eight by ten glossy of your nemesis hanging on your office wall like it’s the queen’s portrait,” Phichit had said, one impeccably manicured fingernail tapping lightly at the rim of his coffee mug as he rested it lightly on Yuuri’s desk.

“I don’t have a nemesis,” Yuuri had said, not looking up from the pile of reports spread over his blotter. “The only spies who have nemeses are in those ridiculous Bond books Minami likes to leave lying around. I think he’s hoping someone will take the hint and give him a field assignment.”

Phichit only raised an eyebrow at the unsubtle redirect and gave Yuuri a long, pointed look before wandering off to his own paperwork.

It wasn’t a lie, though, Yuuri thought as he packed up his briefcase after yet another fruitless day combing through records and report for any trace of Viktor. It was late, and the office was nearly empty, apart from the few janitorial staff and overnight phone operators whose presence he could hear far off in the distant parts of the building. 

Obsession implied irrationality, and nemeses implied some grand, _mano a mano_ duel between larger than life, children's storybook style opponents. This was nothing like that. 

This was necessary. Viktor was dangerous. He was a threat: to their agents, to their networks, to their security. He was clever and cunning and ruthless, and everything that made a good intelligence officer and a good counterintelligence officer lose sleep at night. They knew what he could do, and what he had done, and it was enough that even Phichit, who, with his security clearance didn’t have the entire story, should know that Yuuri’s fixation was entirely justified.

No one liked losing agents.

Yuuri paused in the doorway, his hand on the light switch, and looked back. The picture in question hung high on the far wall, a grainy black and white rectangle surrounded by rich brown wood paneling. The features it depicted were indistinct and blurred, the bad angle further distorted by the enlargement process, but the shock of pale hair was distinct as ever, the nose strong and proud. 

Yuuri’s memory filled in the rest. The eyes, blue and unreadable, the smile, absent of mirth. The tiny flicker of something he’d never been able to identify that crossed Viktor’s face as they’d sat in that interrogation room, sweating in the heat through their starched collars. The polite, hardly accented English that had answered his questions with refusals and misdirections.

Yuuri flicked the light switch and the lights in the office turned off with a click. The sight of the picture hanging right where a portrait of the queen would go (Phichit was correct about that) cut off into blackness and Yuuri was left with the negative impression floating on the back of his eyelids when he blinked.

With the shake of his head and a shrug of his coat, he headed out into the night.

It was raining, as it often is in London, not heavy enough to require an umbrella but enough to keep the late-night crowds indoors if not at home. Clusters of skimpily dressed club goers and smartly attired theater attendees huddled under overhangs to smoke their cigarettes, but otherwise, Yuuri saw few other pedestrians as he hurried down the dark streets.

Later, safely ensconced in the confines of his tiny apartment, wrapped in a dressing gown and a cup of tea at his elbow, he pulled out a notebook and carefully wrote down the license plate numbers of three of the cars that might have been tailing his walk home, and the occupied one parked across the street from his building. None of the plates matched any he’s seen before, but that didn’t mean anything. He set the notebook aside for the evening.

The tea was hot, the flavor reminiscent of his university days. He didn’t like it then, the difference of the British style yet another stark reminder of his distance from home, but it had grown on him in the intervening years. The caffeine, at least, always has its uses.

Some nights when the anxiety is too strong, the memories too close, and the faces of dead men threaten to parade through his dreams, he brews his tea strong and settles into his wingback chair instead of his narrow bed. If he cannot work to keep the demons at bay, then at least he can read. The book opens to a well-familiar page.

* * *

The air was hot and humid, thick with the scents of unwashed bodies, the mid-day meal, and the overflowing communal latrines that stood, fetid and roughshod, out behind the jail. A stream of incensed shouts flew back and forth between the inmates of two cells on opposite sides of the cell blocks main corridor, interrupted only by the verbal combatants’ cellmates’ occasional interjections attempting to either mollify or goad on the spat.

The guard stationed in the hallway made no effort to stop the commotion, board expression hardly flickering as he kept his eyes fixed on the sole occupant of the cell in front of him. The man inside smiled. The guard flinched and looked away, focusing on the wall at the back of the cell instead of its inmate.

The man in the cell allowed himself to lean back against the wall and stretch his legs out in front of him, the springs of the cot squeaking angrily under the shift in weight and the accumulated grime of the cinder blocks likely ruining his dress shirt, but there was no help for it now. He crossed his legs at the ankles and looked at the tips of his shoes consideringly. On the bright side, no one put a spy in a cell with roommates.

He frowned slightly. On the downside, his private cell was possibly a precursor to being taken out and shot. Or, if he were very unlucky, much worse things than that. If he were very lucky, he supposed, he might get sent back home. But even that would likely end in a permanent trip east, or perhaps a more fraternal if equally fatal firing squad. 

Flies buzzed overhead as the man stared off into space, tuning out the shouts of his angry neighbors with practiced ease. The most critical skill for any spy, he thought, was patience. He had ample time to practice his today.

The sun was already starting to set when a guard’s keys rattled in the cell door. “Viktor Nikiforov,” he said, as though there could be any confusion for whom he was there for. His accent twisted the words until they were hardly recognizable.

At the sound of his current alias, the man in the cell stood up calmly, holding his hands out for the proffered manacles with a wry smile. As the guards led him down the hall, Viktor—for he supposed he should think of himself as Viktor, it was important to internalize one’s alias and it was sloppy for him to have stopped—focused on maintaining a relaxed, affable appearance.

They knew who he was. He was well past being able to bargain his way out on that front. But the local authorities had worked him over well and hadn’t gotten anything from him (of course they hadn’t, the amateurs) and the only questions now were who they’d called to turn him over too, and if whoever it was would be interested in trading him back to Yakov rather than shooting him. Whether or not Yakov would want him back was a question that didn’t bear thinking about.

Viktor found himself escorted to a small room, empty but for a table, and two chairs, one of which was occupied. He was shoved roughly into the empty chair and the man gestured for the guards to wait outside. Viktor studied him.

East-Asian, which wasn’t what he expected. Suit and tie, even in the oppressive heat. Serious face, brown eyes. Glasses. By all other appearances physically fit. Perfect posture that spoke of a lifetime of training in either dance, etiquette, or the military.

As Viktor watched the man fiddled with a pen, the nerves implied by the gesture absent from his face, as though what had once been a sign of anxiety had, over time, simply become a habit. Not the sort of behavior one usually saw from an intelligence officer, at least not from one of the good ones, but the confident posture and steady gaze of the man across the table belied any hasty judgment. 

This was why he hated field work. There were too many places he could slip up and he could ill-afford a mistake now. He’d already made enough mistakes to get here.

“So, Mr. Nikiforov,” the man finally said, breaking the silence with a voice that sent an unexpected frisson of pleasure down Viktor’s spine. “I take it you know why I’m here?”

* * *

It’s quiet down amongst the endless rows of filing cabinets housed in the labyrinthine, claustrophobic depths of archive’s basement, but Yuuri, armed with a notepad and pencil and his own stubborn determination, didn’t mind. The painstaking work and dour archivists reminded him of his university days, even if the security guards and subject matter were different. And it was a nice change from fieldwork.

Even the raised eyebrows and disapproving frowns from his colleagues couldn’t dissuade him from spending hours each day squirreled away in the archives, pouring over countless old case reports and interview transcripts. His superiors, he was reasonably certain, were currently content to ignore his actions as those of a grieving man obsessed, but he couldn’t be sure when they would tire of feigning ignorance and send him off on a remote assignment. He needed to figure this out, and soon.

Perhaps there was something to the head shaking and pitying whispers. After all, losing agents was always hard, and everyone took it differently. Yuuri gripped his pen tighter as he forced himself not to think of the ring of agents lost, the informants compromised, the defector re-captured. Personal failure was not something anyone liked to have to confront, his superiors had reminded him in the aftermath, even if it was an unfortunate inevitability in their line of work. 

Yuuri couldn’t accept that, though. Yes, something had gone wrong, and yes, he was ultimately the responsible party for those lives lost. It wasn’t the first time, and, if he wasn’t forcibly retired, it would likely not be the last. It was a dangerous game they played, as some of the more cavalier of his colleagues liked to say.

But, as he played out his fatal decisions over and over, trying to figure out where and what and why things had gone wrong, something didn’t seem to fit. And when he started to look into the archives, at other missions, at other failures, a pattern began to emerge. 

They were losing. A lot. An informant picked off here, an agent compromised there. An entire operation lost, and the blame placed on a convenient fall guy. All seemingly unconnected, but when viewed together proving a serious threat to their operational capabilities. And with no clearly discernible single source.

But something or someone was playing them. Yuuri had a gut feeling. In the secret, deadly game of chess that was their world, they were being outplayed by an opponent they couldn’t even see, someone his superiors didn’t believe existed, only whispered of amongst the more eccentric agents who lingered on the fringes of the intelligence community.

He opened another case file. The archive closed in an hour and he had a ghost to find.


End file.
